Plucking Strings
by Caelia Ardentius
Summary: Different take on Sherlock's jump from St. Bart's and his return. Takes place at end of Series Two and goes onward from there, but does not follow season 3. Eventual Johnlock. Triggers for Drug Abuse in first few chapters.
1. The Fall

_Well, this definitely hurts more than anticipated._

Thoughts. Dancing, bouncing, and rioting through his mind. His "impressive" mind, as John sometimes called it. The mind that John knew would one day be Sherlock's own undoing. And it finally had.

_He'll never forgive me this time_.

Sherlock's body lay sprawled on the concrete outside of Saint Bart's; broken and bloody, yes - but not dead. Not quite yet, anyway. The agonizing pain wracked through his body as the crowd gathered around. Sherlock had always found the general public's fascination with anything morbid a bit dull. It wasn't the end result that they should all be puzzled and staring at, but the how and why of whence it came to be.

_Where is John?_

The crowd pushed towards him, then shrank back, like the inevitable ebb and flow of the tide. Sherlock could hear sirens and shouting in the distance before the overwhelming roar of pain dulled his senses completely. His body had never hurt in this manner before - never in his lifetime had he experienced this extent of physical pain. Not that he had ever been overly aware of his own body before this moment. What had before been transport now became a barrage of sensations. He tried to analyze it; if he went over why the pain was happening, maybe it would subside. Mind over matter, after all.

_Receptors in nerves, flooding information up through spinal cord to Thalamus for processing of pain. Thalamus disbursing signals to rest of brain for additional processing-_

His own being rioted against him, seeking revenge for all the times that he had abused and taken it for granted. The pain was not subsiding. The breaks and bruises and bleeding – he could feel it all. Every single throb, with each shallow beat of his heart.

_Maybe John was right for yelling at me to eat more. Extra body fat may have eased the fall._

Sherlock's glazed eyes focused on a flurry of movement taking place beside him. Struggling against the mass of people surrounding Sherlock's crumpled body, JOhn's familiar face pushed its way into view. And suddenly Sherlock felt it. That pang of tightness that developed in his chest whenever he beheld John. That sensation which felt so much like some unseen force was plucking on his heart strings as Sherlock himself might pluck the strings of his beloved violin.

It was only after Sherlock had met John that he had finally understood the meaning behind the oft-used idiom. Before then he had thought the idea foolish and romantic.

_Sentiment._

But now, he understood it to be an accurate description of a curious biological response. He'd recently tried performing several experiments to discover if he could reciprocate the odd feeling upon viewing the pictures of strangers and acquaintances: Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, Sally, Anderson. And while he had found that some of the stimuli presented did result in varied responses from his person, he still hadn't been able to recreate the feeling which assailed him every time he saw John. He'd tried delving further into this discovery, but hadn't had the opportunity to do so, what with John always about, inquiring about his experiments and findings. At least there would be plenty of time… after.

John came closer, then, swaying to and fro in Sherlock's vision. He looked strange. Sherlock had never witnessed that look on the face of another human being before. He tried to categorize it.

_Anger? No - mouth downturned, but wide open; not tight and thin as it usually is when John is angry. Shock? Sadness? If it were shock, his face would be slack, not tight, and his eyes would be wide, not small. His mouth would fall open only a bit as it usually does when he encounters something unexpected. Sadness, then. But far too intense. ...What could this be? Loss? No...oh. Oh. Agony. Really, John? Agony? Over me?_

Sherlock puzzled and attempted to deduce further, but the look on John's face cleared all thought from his mind for a moment, and the tears streaming down John's face captivated his interest. The gloomy light of the day highlighted the tracks down John's cheeks, fascinating him. He observed John's fingers reach out to him, seeking life in the juncture of his wrist.

_John…tears…crying…for me?_

John's touch brought a flash of raw, blinding pain for Sherlock as his fingers clamped on Sherlock's fractured wrist. Sherlock saw a flash of light spreading across his vision.

_Will you miss me, John? ...What an odd thought._

The light was brilliant, and overtaking, and the pain wracking his body reached an unbearable level. He resisted the urge to cry out. John was being held away from him by unseen hands and Sherlock briefly experienced an urge to latch on to him, to clutch John's hand as the pain washed over him.

_If I knew how to miss someone, John, it would be you._

Sherlock saw the deep blue of John's eyes before slipping off, leaving consciousness and his body behind.

_Goodbye, John._


	2. Further

Sherlock raced through the corridors of his mind palace as he had for the past two months, frantic, searching, for somewhere - anywhere - that he would be able to hide for a moment. Just one moment. A moment where he would be able to shirk away the light, to cower in the shade and comfort that darkness had always provided him.

_John's favorite jumper is ruined for good; that blood is never going to come out._

Just one single moment of rest. A place of quiet, where nothing would find him and he could finally relax; a place where he could think. A place to breathe, to escape the overwhelming sensations of the world.

_At least Mrs. Hudson will be understanding and supportive. For John. He may need the comfort in the coming months._

He twisted and turned down corridor after corridor, shoes pounding against marbled tile. He had to find somewhere to hide; to take respite. The blinding white light expanded through his being, touching every part of him, and brought with it the burning grasp of pain.

_John will be very upset, for what I've put him through. But in time, he will heal._

A scarlett door was approaching on his right, halfway down the wood-paneled wall; the lone door in the otherwise empty hallway. The wood of the door was a vibrant shade of the color, the knob a bright iron bulb. Sherlock did not waste a moment. He twisted the knob harshly and burst into the room, throwing himself inside, Belstaff flapping around him and scarf fluttering from around his neck to land on the cold concrete floor.

The room was dark - darker than pitch, in fact, with an acrid smell permeating the air and a thin straw pallet tucked in one corner. There were no windows, no light, no sound; nothing at all, aside from the darkness.

He remembered this room. He remembered it all too well. This was… _the_ room. The one they all worked so hard to keep him from returning to. John, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson...even Lestrade. The one that offered had once offered such solace, such release. The greatest release that he had ever known.

_Will he start to see that terrible therapist again? She was utterly useless. I should ask Mycroft-_

Sherlock began to feel it. The burning in his veins. The molten fire through his body - one completely different that the burning spread of pain. It tingled, buzzed and lifted; fighting for dominance over his sensations, and becoming victor. Altering his state of being - providing release from his constantly wheeling and churning mind.

_John will be needing a new roommate, then. On the whole, someone quite unlike me. Uninquisitive, helpful, tidy, with a respect for personal boundaries. I wonder if he will stay at Baker Street? John..._

Sherlock buckled as the fire of his release held him with a weight he reveled in, dragging him him down slowly. His knees slammed to the ground, his breath coming harsh and ragged. He threw his hands out to catch himself, but the sheen of sweat covering his body made his palms slip and Sherlock fell forward, his cheek impacting with the cold floor with a jolt he barely felt. He laid there for a few moments, still, before his shoulders began to shake with laughter. It really was quite comedic. This was the second time that he had fallen in as many months, but this time he welcomed it. Craved it, even. His laughter intensified, the harsh sound filling his body and traveling from his mouth out into the quiet of the consuming darkness. He laughed for what seemed like eternity, until he forgot why he had begun laughing in the first place. And then he lay silent, overwhelmed by the darkness, accepting it.


End file.
